He pauses. ‘It, ah, must be interesting for your boyfriend trying to get you off the plane standing upright.’
‘I don’t go on holidays with boyfriends, only friends,’ I blurt. Why did I tell him that? ‘And I’m usually a little relaxed, but they know the score and help me through passport control. It takes about twenty minutes to really hit anyway. By that time we’re on the coach and I nap until we get to the hotel.’ Does he know our knees are touching? My leg feels like it’s on fire. I edge it away discreetly.
‘Sounds like you have it all figured out.’ He squeezes my fingers, looking concerned. ‘But why not just ask your doctor for sedatives if it’s that bad?’
‘Like I said, I’m okay with taking off and being in the air, it’s the end part. I don’t see any point in being knocked out for the whole flight.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Why would I want to waste my time asleep when I could be doing something else instead?’
He tilts his head towards mine, getting so close I start going cross-eyed. ‘Like what?’
‘Reading, watching a film, talking to my friends. You know, normal leisure stuff.’
‘Right.’
He says it like I’m talking about a foreign concept. Doesn’t he get any time off at all?
He shakes his head. ‘Interesting.’
‘What? You did ask.’
‘Not that.’ He leans over and points out the window. I can feel his warm breath on my cheek and shiver. ‘We’ve landed.’
‘Really?’ I look out the Perspex. He’s right. There’s a vast expanse of tarmac visible in the night outside, peppered with landing lights and a control tower. ‘Oh, yes.’ So involved in our conversation, I hadn’t noticed. It’s a first – the Earth and I reacquainting ourselves without the benefit of alcohol. ‘Thank you so much,’ I beam.
He pauses, staring at my mouth then glancing down at our entwined fingers. A strange look crosses his face and he releases my hand quickly. ‘No problem. Besides, it would hardly be good publicity if a member of staff suffered an anxiety-driven heart attack on my private plane. I also need you fully functioning tonight so we can have a proper briefing session. You can’t do that drunk.’
‘But I haven’t had anything to drink! That’s why I was getting anxious.’
He doesn’t answer, busying himself with straightening his tie and undoing his seatbelt.
‘Alex?’
‘Time to get off,’ he snaps. ‘Come on.’
‘Fine,’ I say stiffly. Undoing my belt I bolt from the chair, feeling unexpectedly stung by his briskness. How could I have forgotten who I was talking to? Why was I deluded enough to think he was being sweet and compassionate, even friendly? Why would I even want him to be? He’s not my friend, he’s my temporary boss, ensuring he’s upholding his duty of care. I can’t make the same mistake again; get too close to someone I work with, even if last time it was accidentally. Been there, done that, got the diamanté t-shirt.
Grabbing my handbag and coat from under the seat, I stride over to the exit, where the crew have gathered.
‘Have a pleasant stay in Barcelona.’ The blonde attendant smiles.
‘Thank you.’ Doubtful. ‘Bye.’
Picking my way down the metal stairs, I can’t see a transport bus, so set off towards the airport buildings, assuming our luggage will follow. It’s milder than London but an unkind wind still whistles along the concrete so I pull my coat tighter.
‘Charlotte,’ Alex calls behind me. I carry on walking. He can tell me what he wants to when he catches up.
‘Charley. Charley!’ he yells.
Stopping with a sigh, ‘Yes?’ I try not to let frost coat my voice.
He runs up. ‘No. Over there.’ He gestures back over his shoulder to a car I hadn’t noticed parked twenty feet or so behind the plane.
My eyes widen at the gorgeous lines of the black low-slung sports model. ‘Seriously?’ I breathe, skirting round him to start back.
‘Yes.’ Falling into step, Alex raises an eyebrow. ‘You like it?’ Frowning, ‘Or is it the status thing?’
Legs eating up the distance, I stop next to it, running my hand along the smooth bonnet. Something about the car reminds me of Alex. Powerful. Slick. Sexy. ‘Status? No. It’s not that. Cars aren’t my thing but … well, it’s kind of beautiful.’ Like him. No. Stop it!
‘My kind of woman,’ he murmurs appreciatively before looking horrified at his comment. ‘I mean, I like the way you think. I mean – never mind.’
Smiling inside, I dip my head to study the Maserati badge, amazed to see Mr CEO so uncomfortable. It doesn’t fit with the smooth, self-contained persona. I like the slip, it makes him seem more normal, more approachable.
I know he’s staring at me but stay silent, waiting for him to unlock the car. A pinging sound erupts from his suit jacket. Taking out his phone, he swipes a tanned finger over the screen and reads something, face tightening and draining to white. Whoever sent him the text should run and hide. Now. He looks dangerous.
‘Excuse me.’ Moving away, he touches the screen again and holds the phone to his ear. ‘I need to speak to you,’ he barks. ‘I need some advice.’
He tilts his head whilst listening to the caller and the sound of something cracking in his neck carries over the space between us. Ouch, tense.
‘She just texted me,’ he lowers his voice, ‘saying I need to agree to the latest demand or I can’t see her.’
Whoever she is, I wonder what her price is. I can’t imagine blackmailing a man to stay with me. Is that how the mega rich run their relationships? Fascinated by the idea, I edge closer. Unfortunately Alex notices and scowls, pointing a beeper at the car and gesturing with his chin for me to get in.
Flushing, I open the door and slide into the bucket seat. Bugger, caught out.
Respect the boundaries, Charley. Be professional at all times.
Easier if the man concerned wasn’t so contradictory – and so bloody intriguing.
He joins me in the glamorous car as I’m sliding my hands over the blue and black interior, fiddling with buttons and admiring the inbuilt SatNav. Caught in the act, I tuck my hands under my legs and bite my lip.
‘It’s fine,’ he growls.
The compact front seat means there are only a few inches between us. Too close for comfort, both for my wild hormones and if he’s going to have a go at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I offer, when he simply starts the engine with a low purr and says nothing. ‘For overhearing, I mean. Is everything – are you okay?’
Raising an eyebrow, probably at my description of what was actually blatant nosiness, he fastens his seatbelt. ‘Fine.’
Which means no, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. The quiet spins into an elongated silence but thankfully there’s distraction in the vibrancy and colour of Barcelona as we leave the airport. Damp greenery and concrete roads give way to high-rise towers and numerous heaving shops as we enter the city centre. The street lights are like strobes in the night as Alex accelerates through, but I see that some of the trees have twinkling lights threaded through their bare, twisting branches, possibly the remnants of Christmas. It would be nice to be able to explore the city, but I’m not anticipating much downtime.
I glance at Alex, handling the Maserati like a pro, apparently comfortable with driving on the right-hand side. The confidence is attractive. I’d be a quivering wreck at the thought of driving this car; it’s